


At dead of night, 'til break of day

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Juan Carlos floods him like sunlight.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	At dead of night, 'til break of day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrBalkanophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBalkanophile/gifts).



> I owe the plot bunny & the danger scale entirely to my Def ♥

 

It’s the two of them, it’s only the two of them and they don’t fit quite right together, so it’s a little awkward and quiet and downright awful until Ricky laughs, a quick, breathless sound that crinkles his eyes and eases something at the corners of Pau’s mouth too. Ricky glances up from under his lashes, still smiling; he looks a little self-conscious and he looks like jailbait and he looks like he’s about to say something, which is the opposite of what Pau wants, so Pau kisses him before he can speak, and the kiss is hard and sloppy because Pau can’t bring himself to care about it.

It’s not the right night for caring, is it, tonight? Tonight’s the night he loses by twenty-three, in front of his own crowd, against the Wolves; tonight’s the night he lets Ricky put a hand to his chest and push him down to the couch, tonight’s the night Ricky lets him lick into his mouth like it’s okay that no-one’s watching.

With Ricky warm and heavy in his lap Pau doesn’t even want to think about Juan Carlos — he doesn’t want to think about anything at all, really, — but of course there’s nothing he can do, of course he’s thinking and of course he’s thinking about Juan Carlos even when, especially when Ricky moans hard into his neck and starts rubbing up against him, knees pinned on either side of his thighs. Pau can hear himself growl, sees himself grab Ricky by the nape and tilt his head back, steal another hungry kiss while Ricky’s hands are busy groping down his stomach and pulling at his shirt.

“I’m really—” Ricky pants, but Pau shuts him up again because no, he has no intention to hear whatever it is Ricky has to say about tonight’s game or what they’re doing or even if it was a spell to get rid of the Atlantic Ocean or the cure for cancer, Pau doesn’t give a fuck right now.

His phone is still somewhere in his bag, turned off, he thinks suddenly, and as he can feel the wash of anxiety kick in he squeezes Ricky’s hips hard enough that his sore knuckles hurt, has to grind his teeth to fight the urge to bite.

Ricky whines, his breath hot and shallow somewhere around Pau’s ear; Pau rubs gentle circles into his bruised hips and doesn’t know what to do next, because all he can think of is what he’d do if the body straddling him was a little lighter, and ten years older, and molded to fit his hands exactly. Juan Carlos floods him like sunlight, but it’s a thought, and only good to remind him of the distance between them, and the chill of winter; the disappointment, the plain and simple fucking _hurt_ must show on his face clearer than words on a book, because Ricky kisses the corner of his mouth gently and starts to climb off of him.

Pau stops him, catches him by his wrist, but Ricky grins and, the cheeky bastard, taps his index finger to the tip of Pau’s nose.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, but he is, he is very pointedly going down on his knees and Pau wishes he was a better person than this, he’d love to say that, really, it’s unnecessary and he doesn’t want it, but he does. He lets Ricky undo his slacks and pull them down along with his boxers and he doesn’t even feel guilty, because distance makes him numb and right now he’s holed up in his own head, watching himself fuck Juan Carlos through the mattress of his childhood bed this past summer. Pau is still surprised that the fucking thing didn’t collapse the moment they sat on it.

It’s probably terrible manners, he muses belatedly, to be with someone and think of someone else; then again, it’s not like Ricky doesn’t know, and he doesn’t seem to mind if Pau spaces out a little, thinking of a smaller nose, tighter hips and rougher little noises, trying to pull at and mess up longer hair.

Ricky bites at the inside of his thigh and Pau’s head snaps up. “Fuck,” he mutters, and Ricky, bracketed between his legs and not two inches from his dick, gives him a sly grin.

“Should we call him?” he asks, and if he notices how Pau stops breathing for a second at the suggestion, he doesn’t mention it. “He said he’d be up. We should call.”

Pau sighs. Calling implies about a billion of very undesired consequences — for example, they’d have to talk. Talk about the game, that is, and Pau really doesn’t need that right now. Of course they could just _not_ talk, he’s pretty adamant Ricky isn’t thinking about conversation either, but he’s not an idiot and he knows Juan Carlos and Juan Carlos knows him inside out too, and there’s no way, no way in heaven and hell and every place inbetween he’d let this go. Memories are pretty much the only safe ground for Pau at the moment, and for a number of reasons.

He sighs again.

“It’s fine,” he says, his hand curling around the side of Ricky’s face affectionately. He’s never had him like this before, he realizes; he’s never even thought about having Ricky like this before because _before_ , he’s only ever had Ricky with Juan Carlos, and even then, Ricky wasn’t the point. Ricky was never the point.

Pau, and suddenly he does feel a pang of guilt and the bite of shame, is not entirely sure Ricky is the point even now, because as he leans in to kiss him, he’s thinking of very, very distant things; Juan Carlos, and the mash of adoration and yearning and homesickness and wet lust that follows, of course. But more than that, he’s thinking of Juan Carlos who said he’d be up at three in the morning to watch him play and — as if that wasn’t hard enough, given the outcome of the night, — texted a photo where he’s giving a silly thumbs up, with about enough sushi to populate an aquarium spread out on the table before him, but it wasn’t his living-room table and it wasn’t his kitchen table and Juan Carlos wasn’t home entirely.

As Ricky’s thumb runs down his cock experimentally, Pau is thinking about Juan Carlos at Kostas’ place; at three in the morning, with sushi and beer and probably a couch, and he’s pretty sure this makes him a gigantic jerk, but he can’t help it, can he? Juan Carlos, sunlight, itchy sunburns, all that stuff.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles again, except it isn’t, and of course Ricky noticed. Christ, Ricky probably knows exactly what’s going on in Pau’s head; everyone does, it seems. Marc spent a hundred bucks on a huge GettyImages photo of Juan Carlos and Kostas low-fiving, had it printed and framed and sent to Pau’s home because that’s his idea of a practical joke. Pau is still trying to come up with an appropriate response, and it’s been five days.

Ricky licks a long, slow line from the root to the tip and, okay, that’s a good distraction; Pau can work with that. He tries to tell himself he’s just being paranoid and ridiculous but the fucking combination of sushi and a late-night game, Jesus Christ, it sounds so much like a date he wants to slit his wrists open — except Ricky’s mouth is suddenly hot and wet and everywhere around him and Pau is already comparing it to the tighter, more familiar warmth of Juan Carlos’, yeah, but it lasts a split second because then Ricky is sucking and holy Christ, he’s good. He’s very—

(“Fuck,” Pau moans, and his hands are in Ricky’s hair, look at that, when did that happen? He pulls just a little, because the hair’s too short for him to get a decent grip anyway, and Ricky hums, all focused and happy. Of course he likes it, _of course_.)

—very good, dedicated and thorough, his tongue curling around Pau’s cock, his thumbs stroking Pau's tender inner thighs, his head bobbing up and down at just the right rhythm, if not maybe a bit faster than what Pau usually likes — a bit faster than what Juan Carlos usually gives, yes, fine — and that’s not entirely negative. Christ, it’s not negative at all.

Pau finds himself a bit blinded, out of breath and leaning forward as if to keep Ricky from moving away, not that Ricky seems interested in going anywhere any time soon. He does pull back a little, to catch his breath Pau imagines, but he doesn’t stop licking and sucking gently and that earns him a delighted sigh, which in turn makes him grin.

“Christ you’re so tense,” Ricky comments, and he sounds half amused and half fond. Pau is mildly embarrassed because at the same time, Ricky is still jacking him off, lazy and too slow to cause any irreparable damage, but still. “How long’s it been, huh?”

Pau looks away. _Subtle_ , he thinks. “I’ve… I’ve been stressed.”

“Bullshit,” Ricky actually laughs. “Dude, I’ve heard you fuck _for hours_ the night before a billion win-or-go-home games, so don’t come waving your stress at me like it’s an excuse I’m gonna believe, mmmkay?” Ricky’s smile turns gentle, and the strokes stop, his hand just rests lightly around the root of Pau’s dick, like a promise or a threat, he’s not sure.

Pau shrugs. “It’s fine, Ricky.”

“Just tell me,” Ricky insists, and tugs on his cock a little and okay, that is so unfair. And Juan Carlos-like. Pau feels a little proud; it’s also a bit disconcerting, actually, but it is what it is. “Pau, Jesus, are you and Juanki _fighting_? Because he really doesn’t need that, y’know.”

Of course he would immediately take Juan Carlos’ side in an imaginary argument he knows nothing about; Pau rolls his eyes a little.

“We’re perfectly fine, thank you.” Not that he’d tell Ricky if they weren’t, anyway. “It’s just—we’ve been busy, okay? And I still can’t bend timezones to my will, so.”

Ricky squints up at him, suspicious. “Then why didn’t you let me call him?”

Pau doesn’t want to answer, so he doesn’t; he tries to shrug it off but Ricky won’t buy it, and he actually starts to back off and away from Pau’s dick, which has been _right there_ this whole time, and well, Pau is only human and he misses his boyfriend and best friend and he had a terrible night so he gives in and says, “He was at Papanikolaou’s place tonight, they watched the game together,” and then Ricky’s eyes go comically wide and round like he’s just seen whatever other-worldly monstrosity would it take for him to actually be this taken aback.

“Holy shit,” he says, and then he blinks and looks kinda normal again. “So you’re jealous. Should I be jealous too, you think?”

Pau kicks him in the thigh.

“You don’t get to be jealous, kid.”

Ricky pouts for about half a minute; then suddenly, he’s nuzzling Pau’s cock and giving it a small lick, his expression drawn and thoughtful.

“Jesus, Ricky.”

And it’s back to that ridiculously spot-on sucking, which would make Pau suspect that Ricky and Juan Carlos might have talked about his dick and exchanged notes on blowjobs, if he didn’t know for a fact that Juan Carlos is well above anything like that — or anyway, here’s hoping, — and Ricky starts making tiny, hollow noises from the back of his throat and even starts stroking himself a little through his boxers as Pau tugs on his ears, until suddenly Ricky pulls back and says, “He kinda looks like me, though, don’t you think?”

“Wha—huh? Who? What?” mumbles Pau, incoherent and half lost, and it’s painful to pull himself back down but he has to, because Ricky isn’t leaning in again.

“Kostas,” Ricky says, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Kostas looks a little like me.”

Pau huffs a breathless laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Please! If anything, he should be flattered. But what I mean is,” Ricky hesitates, which yeah, gets Pau’s attention. “You don’t have to worry. Even if—even if they, uhm. Which I don’t think they are, by the way. Anyway, he—Juanki, I mean—he’s probably just, y’know, looking out for him. Because he reminds him of, of me.”

It takes Pau a moment to realize — and he entirely blames it on the orgasm he’s been half denied just know — that this is Ricky, offering emotional support.

He laughs so hard and so long that Ricky, who was initially smirking, eventually gets offended.

“Jerk,” he mutters, poking him in the knee.

Pau cups Rickys face in his hands and kisses him briefly, still a little giggly. He pulls up his underwear, too, because now that the mood is completely exstinguished, he’s starting to feel a little exposed.

“I’m sorry. You’re very sweet, Ricky, thank you.”

_You should probably stick to the blowjobs_ , he doesn’t say; Ricky rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever. Y’know actually, the fact that Juanki hangs out with Kostas because he makes him think of me, probably _should_ make you worry. I don’t see him with anyone who looks like you.”

Pau laughs again and rubs his head. “I’m not scared of you, kid.”

Ricky pouts. “I can be dangerous too, y’know. You know I’m Juanki’s favourite.”

Pau grins, and shrugs with only one shoulder.

“You’re not me, though. And he wants me more than anyone else.”

“Wow, you sound very confident,” Ricky says, with a tiny, genuine smile. “Why are you so paranoid about Kostas, then? I mean, you’re _Pau_ ,” he says, with mocking emphasis. “Who the hell is he?”

“That’s the point. I don’t know him, I don’t know… ah, let’s say I don’t know where to put him on the danger scale.”

Ricky laughs, which was half the point of Pau’s line; he doesn’t actually have a scale. Well, he didn’t five seconds ago.

“‘Danger scale’, seriously? From one to Barney Stinson, how likely are you to steal the love of my life?”

Pau grins. “Something like that.”

“Dude, you are _so_ whipped.” Ricky’s smile is so wide it could fit a dozen oranges snugly. He likes what Pau and Juan Carlos have, he’s never even tried to hide that; it’s a big part of why Pau considers him not a threat to anything of importance.

“You have no idea.”

Ricky giggles a little, mutters something about working on his homewrecking factor. Pau smacks him around the head; they eat some Chinese leftovers together, and then Ricky goes back to his hotel.

 

 

The moment the kitchen clock, which is set to Barcelona’s timezone, ticks to nine forty-five, Pau is out of the armchair and fishing for his phone. He turns it back on, ignores all the texts and voicemail notifications, and goes straight for the first number in his speed-dial.

Juan Carlos picks up on the fourth ring. He grunts randomly into the microphone, and Pau chuckles.

“Hey,” he says, already overwhelmed with warmth. Juan Carlos’ next hoarse noise sounds a little interrogative, then there’s some rustling, a scoff, and suddenly, the line goes mute. Juan Carlos hung up.

Pau walks to his bedroom and by the time he’s comfortably propped up against the padded headrest, Juan Carlos is calling on FaceTime.

“Good morning,” he says, smiling hard at Juan Carlos’ pink cheeks, his half-closed eyes, his lips pursed in a pout. He’s still in bed, the phone too close to his face. Pau has no intention whatsoever to complain.

“’lo. I was ’sleep,” Juan Carlos mumbles, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. Pau’s heart is so tight in his chest he fears he might implode soon; he barely resists the urge to stroke the screen to pretend he’s touching Juan Carlos.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Juan Carlos gives him a one-eyed glare, because he’s still rubbing the other eye.

“Don’t sass me this early in the morning,” he whines, but he’s smirking a little. “Also, why are you still up?”

Pau shrugs. “I wanted to wake you up.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet.” I-just-woke-up sarcasm was always one of Pau’s favorites. “I deserve my sleep, you know? I was up until dawn, on a game day I might add, just to watch my husband get destroyed by a bunch of children.”

“Harsh,” Pau says, through a smile so wide it actually hurts his face.

“I slept, like, three hours,” Juan Carlos mumbles; he turned very pink when he mentioned the h-word, and it’s not fading. “And then you wake me up and I also have to be so disappointed.”

“And why would you be disappointed, Juanqui?”

Juan Carlos shifts the phone a little further away; Pau can see he wore one of his University of Barcelona shirts to sleep.

“You didn’t have so many clothes on, in my dream.”


End file.
